The Stand
by RingsAkhaten
Summary: For Diego-and Zorro-what goes around also comes.


With a last, tender pat at his face, Diego bid Toronado farewell. His wise old stallion, as he always did, briefly lingered before setting off, alone, at the full of his gallop.

It was an old, familiar ruse, but this time-and for this man-Diego's gut assured him that it was likely to fail. Sparing a quick, backward glance, he dutifully dove behind the nearest outcropping of rock, and listened with the full attention of his ears.

The pause gave him a much needed respite. For days, the riders had relentlessly pursued him, and by some measure of divination beyond his understanding, they would not yield to his traditional distractions. Now, driven to the literal ends of the Earth, he lay in sight of the great precipice, a vast gouge in the surface of the land hundreds of feet in its depth. Here, with his back to the chasm, he would have to make his stand and at last, look into the eyes of the man who hunted him.

Then, the wind arose, and on it, the distant thunder of hooves, growing ever more close. Rising yet keeping low to the ground, he scrambled through the boulders and ground cover to hang his head over the land's jagged edge.

There was still a chance.

Turning to confirm his gut's earlier suspicions, Diego was unsurprised but still greatly disheartened when the men rode on, ignoring Toronado's false trail. Of all those who had ever pursued Zorro, this one was remarkably different. It was as if the mysterious man had spent years studying the outlaw's tactics, but in his heart of hearts, Diego still believed he had a few more cards to play.

Spying down over the edge of cliff, fate at last dealt him a good fortune. A small projection, wide enough for a foot tread, and perhaps strong enough to take some of his weight. Turning, his back to the chasm, he drew himself downwards over the edge, slowly, leading with his feet, and careful to avert his eyes from the floor far below. Finally, after an agonising climb, his feet at last touching something solid, yet, his fingers still clutched at the top edge of the cliff, no doubt clearly visible in his dark gloves, even in the fading light.

All was not lost, however, the edge was lined with some small brambles and brush and with a little contortion of his body, Diego found he could anchor his feet and still conceal his fingers. The position was harrowing, and not at all comfortable, but he was well secure and thanks to the fortuitous ledge, he could maintain his grip indefinitely.

Now, perched on the edge of the abyss, he let his breathing still, every fiber of his being focused on utter silence and immobility. Again, the wind rose, already cooling as the day slipped away, and from above a small shower of leaves and debris propelled by the tempest rained down on his hat and cape. Then, a new, strange sound, akin to wash on a line, flapping and turning in a breeze, crisp and crackling and in the instant that followed, a very near rustling, like the movement of branches. Diego's heart skipped, his breathing ceased and by some desperate and instinctive impulse, his head lifted and his eyes looked upward.

The man, standing above, stood so near to the precipice the toes of his dark boots were clearly visible over the edge. His poncho, caught in the wind, flared outward, exposing the blade and pistol at his hips, his face obscured with a dark, heavy cloth pulled upward to the bridge of his nose. Above and below the broad-brimmed hat, the man's eyes glowed amber in the light of the sunset, and even now, seeing closely at last, Diego still did not know him.

In response to his lifted gaze, the other slowly raised his pistol until it stood in direct alignment to the top of Diego's head. Then, the man's foot shifted its position and a heavy pressure came to bear on the outlaw's fingers. Slowly, the figure knelt down, the full of his weight shifting forward until a sharp cry forced itself from Diego's throat.

When the sound faded, in desperation, the bandit played his last and only card. Trapped, his weapons unreachable, his grip failing and looking down the edge of the barrel, Diego had but one armament. His mind.

Every moment of distraction was another moment to think, and another moment of life. Again, meeting the eye of his captor, this time he spoke.

"You seem to have me at a slight disadvantage."

At this, some, small, muffled sound escaped the fabric covering the other man lips and to Diego's astonishment, the utterance was one of amusement. Then, the pressure on his fingers increased to the point of another, painful outcry, and then suddenly released as the man again rose to his full height, standing triumphantly over his form.

"More than you know."

At the sound, Diego's eyes narrowed, his ears sharpening as some great, and terrible chill stood up the hairs of his neck. Then, another, stronger gust of wind rained down a torrent of pellets and small stones, forcing him to lower his head to shield his eyes.

When at last, the deluge foundered, slowly fading to a soft, gentle breeze, Diego again raised his head and lifted his eyes to the figure above him. Caught in the wind and spun golden in the sun, the other's long, shimmering hair was now freed by the loss of his hat, and at its sight, Diego paled.

The man's eyes, unfettered from shadow, shone cool and azure against the sky's deepening blue, their depths revealing his last and staggering secret.

His lips parting, his mouth falling agape, the word-and the name-caught at Diego's mind and at his throat.

"Vincente?"

At his words, the man above him, a living image of Zorro's long-dead enemy, stripped away the last of Diego's doubts with his scarf, revealing his brother's treacherous and glowing smile. Then, the smile broadened as, from within the folds of his poncho, the twin produced and extended a long, slender roll of paper.

"I trust you still remember this?"

Diego's grip slackened, his mind reeling, and for an instant, the gorge loomed upward, threatening to swallow his form and in that moment, the pressure returned to the fingers of his left hand, now more heavily, until at last, his grip gave away.

Grasping by a single hand, frantic, the outlaw stretched outward in vain for the paper dangled just out of his reach.

Then, slowly, horribly, and at last, recognition dawned. With another desperate outstretch, he faltered, crying out in horror as his ledge like the world about him began to shift and crumble.

Now, on the edge, his life slipping away, the outlaw Zorro, Diego de la Vega found a moment of perfect clarity.

Gazing upward once again, his eyes followed the long line of the outstretched cylinder to the dark glove that held it. Beyond, the thin red line extended, trailing away beneath the sleeve of the impossible man.

Above him, the former Alcalde of Los Angeles, stood, his back straight and proud, a victorious gleam in his eye.

Then, the ledge gave away.


End file.
